


Second Place Trophy

by 3rdgenderfromthesun



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Sex, Canon deaths, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, Roman Myths, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Writing Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 10:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19149472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3rdgenderfromthesun/pseuds/3rdgenderfromthesun
Summary: Stiles was second at just about everything in life, including the second person in recorded history born without a Soulmark to indicate to him that he had found his Soulmate. However, the first person had been dead for nearly two thousand years. Unless, of course, he was also the same statue that legend said was waiting frozen in time for his Soulmate to take his hand.





	1. Chapter 1

 

I was given this writing prompt on a facebook group, but have since left facebook so I hope those who wanted to read it stumble across it here. It was originally meant to be a oneshot, so I wrote it in that style and then it turned into a longer story. Hopefully, it still flows well. Enjoy!

 

The 10 Elements of a Soulmate | Huffpost Life

 

5 Fastest Ways to Find Your Soulmate | Teenwolfvogue

 

So You Think You're Alone? | Psychology Today

 

9 Signs You've Found Your Soulmate | Refinery49

 

 

Stiles had been searching for years. Literal years. Not some silly over-dramatization on Dr. Phil with make-up running down his face as he sobbed that the guy who'd beat him's soul mark looked _kinda_ like his, so it had to be accurate. Nope. Stiles had been literally searching _his body_ for years. Ever since he learned in middle school that soul marks were _actually important_ he'd been studying every single mole on his body- and he had a fair amount- for evidence that one of them were actually a super tiny soul mark. He'd even had doctors help, two of them standing over his body with magnifying glasses and muttering about his moles for hours.

 

Stiles was unique in that he had no identifiable Soulmark on his body, which really wasn't fair because in literally everything else in the world he came in _second_. He was the second smartest person in school, beaten only by Lydia Martin. Second clumsiest in the school, beaten only by Greenberg. Second to True Alpha Scott McCall; as in literally his second, normally called a First Beta when a werewolf took the position, but when a human like Stiles fell into it the position got knocked down to _Second_. And the second person his father thought about since thoughts of losing his mother consumed the man until he drank himself stupid. However, he was the first and only person in America to ever be born without a soul mark. That was made only less ironic by the fact he was the second in the whole of recorded history. So. Still second, really, since America was _not_ the center of the universe as some of his super racist school mates would have him think.

 

So Stiles went through middle school being studied since he'd announced to the class he hadn't been born with a Soulmark. His parents had gone to lengths to keep it a secret when he'd been born, convincing doctors that a pattern of moles on his back were his Soulmark, but as he got older one of them had faded away and none had become more prominent or raised like Soulmarks usually did. It certainly had never throbbed or burned like they were supposed to when he went through crush after crush in High School. Isaac hadn't even noticed him. Instead he'd been mad for Allison, who Scott was obsessed with, and while no one noticed Stiles' heart breaking at all the three had announced that they were the triad Stiles had fantasized about with Lydia. Said Goddess had been soundly bonded to her Soul Mate since elementary school, and any hope that Stiles was a third in a triad- even if that meant putting up with Jackson Whitmore- had been soundly laughed off by all of their friends in a truly epic public humiliation event which had been filmed and posted on Wolftube. (Don't worry, that event was _also_ a second, as in the second most embarrassing moment to occur in his graduating class. The honor of first went to Erica who had been turned by Scott to cure her seizures. She'd jump-kissed him in gym class and he'd automatically thrown her onto the floor. She'd broken her leg in the awkward fall and since it was an alpha-induced injury it had stayed broken for a week. She'd had to be a werewolf in a cast, and Scott had made it ten times worse by following her around and awkwardly trying to help her with her books since he felt bad she was taking so long to heal.) Lydia had eventually formed a triad with another person, but it was many years later and the guy was bonded more to Jackson than Lydia. Stiles' last and most fleeting crush had been a girl at a party who had given him his first kiss. He'd expressed that he'd thought she was into girls. She'd told him she liked boys as well and asked if he did. Since Stiles had rarely found a girl attractive (Lydia) he'd fumbled the conversation and she'd gone off to look for someone else. She'd found her Soulmate a few seconds later while dancing with Malia Tate and Kira Yukimura. So apparently Stiles' crushes were blessed to form triads, making Beacon Hills the 1st highest in triad bondings in the state. It was actually only the second worst fate of a person born without a Soulmark.

 

The only other person in written history to have been born without a Soulmark was Derek Hale, a Roman soldier in the BC era. Over 2000 years ago he'd been born without even a mole on his body to hide his shame, and his rage at being denied his happily ever after had been a curse on his entire family. He'd tried to sleep his way through Rome in the hopes of finding someone anyway, but every single person _he_ had a crush on tried to murder him or his family. He'd ended up lusting after someone from the Hunteros family in Troy, launching a war between the countries when she ran away with him. Katherine of Troy was then known as the Face that Launched 1000 Ships, but sadly it had turned out to be a plot to start the war rather than true love. She'd run off with Derek's uncle Peter the second the war started, and the two had murdered most of Derek's family in their sleep. Only his two sisters survived, and while they managed to subdue and eventually kill Peter and Katherine, the eldest sister was killed during the final battle with Peter. Derek had inherited the Alpha ability, but rather than form a healthy pack he'd ended up courting more disaster. He'd nearly married a Darach, something Stiles was familiar with as one had briefly courted Beacon Hills; thankfully she had not been associated with Stiles so he hadn't suffered much from the accusations that he was bringing curses down on the town. Then Derek had formed a brief bond with another soldier named Braeden, alliance and family name unknown to history, who had eventually tried to kill him to cash in on a dead pool placed on him by his late uncle that was still being paid out by a Benefactor. Last but not least, his only remaining family had been injured, leading to him draining his alpha power to save her. He'd then sent her away, realizing his curse was only going to result in more death. His last recorded act, which had descended into mythology, was to court _Medusa._ He'd apparently, according to recovered scrolls, written his sister and told her:  


_Surely, sister mine, Medusa's hideous form is the answer to my own repulsive nudity. Her scales are mistaken, according to my research. She is not a monster, but a woman covered in a full body Soulmark! As I am bare and she marked, we must be the answer to each other's deformity. I shall seek her out. Surely I will be immune to her stony gaze, and if not than the burden I have placed on the Hale name will be no more._

 

His sister had written to talk him out of it, but of course had been too late. Derek Hale had gone to Medusa's lair and faced the Gorgon- for she was in fact a monster and _not_ Soulmarked as he'd somehow decided. He'd been turned into stone. His sister had faded out of history, not having received his alpha ability when he'd drained it to give to her and not having assumed any kind of throne or fought a famous battle. Nothing was known of her fate past her last beseeching letter to her brother.

 

Stiles, being a practical young man, had been curious as to where this unmarked man's statue stood, if it had survived the centuries. So he'd done some research. Medusa's home was as mythological as she was, and there was little information as to it's location. It was either a now unknown island called Sarpedon, or a rocky island 'to the far west, beyond the outer ocean'. By all accounts, it had been rocky and there had been lots of lava. That implied an island made by volcanoes, which... didn't really narrow things down. It was out of the normal Roman Empire area, that was for sure, and the furthest west of that was Spain, so Stiles studied the islands around Spain for a while. During his research he'd had an unlucky crush on one of his college professors in Virginia who, of course, suddenly found out that he and his soul mate had a third. Lucky bastards.

 

Stiles' research eventually landed him on a brand new myth. An island in Bermuda boasted a very old, unidentified by history statue. It was of a half naked man, possibly Roman, who was described as the epitome of beauty. He was uniquely preserved by a magic spell, and a plaque at the base told a story that sounded like the continuation of Derek Hale's story. This coupled with the Bermuda triangle sounding a _lot_ like Derek Hales fucked up curse continuing past his life, and the fact Somerset Village where it was located sounded a _tiny bit_ like Sarpedon (it started with S, okay?) made Stiles suspicious that this was Derek Hale's final resting place. Ironically the poem on the plaque rhymed, if translated a bit loosely by using 'letter' instead of 'Soulmark', in both English and Gorgon and Stiles found that this tiny detail made him all the more excited and sure of his theories.

 

_Cursed By The Fates To Howl Alone  
He Traveled Far From Realm and Home_

_Frozen By She Who Wished Him Better_

_He Waits for Another Who Bears No Letter_

 

Of course, ancient historians and anthropologists hadn't connected these particular dots, so perhaps the only path Stiles was following that was similar to Derek Hale was insanity, but he had to _try_. And really, the plaque was quite a tell and he had no idea how no one else had connected it. The island people had drummed this statue up as a tourist trap. Despite it not spelling it out on the plaque, the local legend said that the sexy dude's Soulmate wasn't born in his time, so he had to _wait_ for him or her or them in stone until they were born. If that person were to touch his hand, he would be transformed to flesh again and then happily ever after, blah, blah, blah. It was a selfie hot spot. Really, that's all it had become. Whether they were people who had not met their Soulmate yet despite advancing years, horny teens, or people who were sure their relationship would improve with a third fuck buddy, or vain people who loved a good selfie spot, everyone stopped there during their tour of the island to take a picture while holding hands with the statue hottie. So far he hadn't turned to flesh, but guessing by all the people giving him amorous looks in their selfies he sure as hell had turned a few clits and dicks to stone.

 

Stiles was poor, of course, so he couldn't just _take a trip to the island_ to grope the statue, but it quickly became his obsession. Which, of course, meant that his friends became _worried_. By this point he and Lydia were friends- Jackson tolerated him like a bad smell at an airport- and she was particularly vocal in how much of an idiot he was being. Scott never stopped giving him sad looks about it. Isaac kept sighing whenever Stiles brought up the statue. Allison gave him her “I ship you” face, which was honestly _creepy_. Erica and Boyd would just look at each other with this look of foreboding worry, as if Stiles were going to bring down doom upon them if he got near that statue. Most likely, even if the statue were to come alive it would just immediately bond with two other random-ass people and form a throuple, leaving Stiles to wallow in sorrow and loneliness forever.

 

So Stiles gave up.

 

Because it was pointless and he was going to spend the rest of his life alone.

 

Even the doctors and scientists had lost interest by the time Stiles had attained his dream of being an FBI agent.

 

Stiles was well and truly alone in the world, as he now worked far from his friends in California and his busy schedule meant he saw them and his father rarely. His dad talked about moving to Virginia to be closer to Stiles when he retired, but really no one retired from Beacon Hill's Police Department. They died. Stiles was glad to be far from home to avoid having to see it, especially since his father just kept sneaking burgers and fries. Stiles had given up on him, too. And now that he was so far from home, Scott had found a new Second; or rather he'd found a First Beta. Stiles had been replaced and forgotten, much like Derek Hale had vanished from history.

 

Frankly, he was fine with it. Love wasn't everything, and Stiles was _fine_. Really. He was. He was _doing just great, thank you very much._ He was succeeding at his job, was rising the ranks, and was hoping he'd be first in his field or department if he just kept working himself to death and didn't let something as pesky as _love_ or _sex_ distract him.

 

Which was why The Fates just had to get involved, but as with anything Greek Mythology related, they weren't exactly _nice_ about it. No Disney fairy tale for Stiles Stilinski! Nope! Instead, they stuck their eyeball into his business by getting him _shot_. He knew it was suspicious immediately, because he hadn't even been shot directly. He'd been ricochet shot, in the leg, by a bullet that was fired from two buildings away on a completely unrelated B&E of a house near the coffee shop he stopped at. The shot had shattered his femur and the resulting paranoia from the sheer how-the-fuckery had landed him in therapy. His therapist had told him to take a vacation. His mindless focus on cases was making him unwell. Stiles smelled a rat instantly and told her point blank he was _not_ going to Bermuda. She'd given him a weird look and told him he didn't have to.

 

Which was probably why The Fates saw fit to have his unnaturally lucky and gifted best friend win a trip to Bermuda for four.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Stiles, this is ridiculous,” Scott huffed angrily, “You've been talking about going to Bermuda since High School and I've got an extra ticket. We never see each other and I miss my best friend. Your therapist wants you to take a vacation. Come on, why not?”

 

“Because it's _too convenient_. Scott, you grew up in Beacon Hills just like I did. What happens when all the red strings form a nice little web?”

 

“You start screaming about plots and evil plans?”

 

“People _die_ , Scott. People die when I notice _patterns_ of _evil plots_.”

 

“It's next week. Pack a bathing suit.”

 

“I'm not going, Scott!”

 

“I'm still your Alpha. You're going.”

 

“You can't make me!”

 

“The boat leaves from Boston on July 18th.”

 

“I CAN'T HEAR YOU! LALALALALALALA!”

 

“Be there or be kicked out of the pack.”

 

“I... What?”

 

“I'm serious, Stiles. You're never around, you don't visit anymore, you didn't even call after you got shot. I had to find out from your dad, who found out from _the news_. He nearly had a heart attack, Stiles. You're clearly unwell. You come with us and spend time bonding with me and my mates like packmates are supposed to, and then you visit your dad for the remainder of your time off from work. This happens or you're out of the pack. I won't be responsible for you anymore.”

 

Stiles felt an ache in his chest that he rubbed at anxiously. He hadn't _meant_ to be distant. He definitely had meant to call his dad and tell him he was okay, but his dad had beat him to it and called the hospital... the day after he'd been shot. Stiles had been _busy,_ okay? They'd had to do surgery on his leg. It had been a big deal. Lots of pain meds had been involved, so he could be forgiven for not calling his dad right away. Right?

 

“Scott...” Stiles sighed, “Do you even remember _why_ I wanted to go to Bermuda as a kid?”

 

“I remember you being fascinated by all things troublesome and there's a magical triangle that sinks ships there, but I promise you we're not going near it. Okay?”

 

Stiles groaned. Scott had forgotten. Of course he had. He was _Scott_. Well, maybe he could just avoid the statue?

 

Stiles felt a tug on his heart again and was half convinced The Fates themselves were toying with him. Or he'd taken way too many pain pills combined with his Aderol and was dying. Probably the latter.

 

“Okay. I'm cleared for travel by then,” Stiles sighed, “I'll go, but don't expect me to have fun.”

 

“Wow, thanks,” Scott growled, “So glad you're joining us.”

 

He hung up and Stiles stared at the glowing screen in his dark, tiny apartment, and wondered what the hell he was actually doing with his life. His success at the FBI felt like it was going to fall apart at the seams if he didn't get his head screwed on right again. His therapist was right. He needed a vacation.

 

And a selfie with a statue.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles leaned on his cane and felt _old_. He was twenty-eight. He shouldn't feel _old_. It was the cane, probably. It had to be the cane. And the fact he'd automatically dressed in a suit as if he were going to work and was now surrounded by people in Hawaiian print and bikinis waiting to board a cruise ship. He hadn't found Scott yet, but he had given his name and they'd let him through. Now he was waiting in line and sweating his ass off. It was way too hot for Boston in July. Stupid climate change.

 

“Stiles! Stiles!”

 

Scott was tan, wearing a button down he hadn't bothered to button, had a beach ball under one arm, and had two gorgeous people following after him. Allison was in a bikini and her breasts were _bouncing_ with each step. Her belly was round with cubs, and the fact that neither man cared who the sire was made Stiles all the more jealous of their epic love. Isaac's pretty curls were bouncing in time to Allison's breasts, which was honestly really bad theatrics, the universe should be ashamed of it's timing and attempt to make their love seem even more ridiculously perfect than it already was. Stiles blinked back tears as Scott threw one arms around Stiles, backed off, and bounced a beach ball off his head.

 

“Dude! You came!”

 

“Not as much as you three,” Stiles muttered.

 

Isaac gave him a confused and uncomfortable look but Scott just laughed and touched Allison's belly possessively.

 

“You can touch it if you want,” Allison suggested gently, giving him that pity look he was thoroughly tired of.

 

“I'm good, thanks,” Stiles forced on a smile and tried not to smell bitter and hurt. Scott's hand had moved to cover her belly more fully and he had a feeling he actually was _not_ welcome to touch the baby bump. Things were strained, that was for sure.

 

“You look ridiculous,” Scott teased, stepping in front of Allison possessively. He probably wasn't even aware he was doing it, “I told you to pack a bathing suit!”

 

“I did,” Stiles shrugged and jostled the gym bag he usually took to away cases, “It's packed. In the bag. Where things you pack go.”

 

“Well, change into it when we get to our cabins, okay? Hey, so this thing doesn't get the whole 'throuple' thing. This was supposed to be a trip for two couples, like a double date thing? So Isaac's bunking with you because we've been told the beds are waaay too small for three people. That okay? We'll trade off on the way back and I'll bunk with you instead. That way you get to spend time with both of us!”

 

“Yay,” Stiles forced out.

 

“I'd let you bunk with Allison for part of it, but seriously. Pregnancy farts. I wouldn't subject you to that.”

 

Allison laughed and punched his shoulder but Stiles suspected it was about keeping her away from the unmated male while pregnant. Werewolf instincts and all. Only Isaac would be allowed to be that close to her at this point in time, and that was because they were all three bonded. So Stiles was going to spend the trip to the island bunking in a tiny double bed with the guy he had a crush on in school and the way back with his alpha whose relationship with him was strained at best. Fantastic.

 

The cabins were pretty but tiny, and the bathroom lacked elbow room. They'd gotten the smallest couples rooms on the ship since the trip was free, so Stiles was pleasantly surprised to find that they had their own TV in the room. The bed really _was_ small, and up against one wall to boot, but that wall had a big port window that let them see the ocean beyond. Isaac was excited about the window and the fish he'd see but Stiles dubbed it creepy and sited a few horror movies before closing it firmly. Isaac's smile vanished, a few minutes later he did, and a few hours after his bags were gone as well. Apparently it _was_ possible to fit two werewolves and a pregnant lady in one bed.

 

Stiles changed into his bathing suit and went topside to watch the land recede. He promptly got sick, but was told that the rocking would stop further out to sea. He took to his bed to wait that out and fell asleep. By the time he woke up it was late at night, but the ship was far from asleep. People were out at the pool playing games, laughing, hooking up, and drinking their sorrows away. Stiles had passed the point of needing daily pain meds so he partook of a few drinks and was soon deep in a poker game in the card room. Scott found him there smoking a cigar and swearing like a sailor and gave him a very forced smile.

 

“Glad to see you're having fun,” Scott said softly.

 

“Yeah, I'm almost done here. Wanna do something?” Stiles asked, needing to at least _try_ to make things right with Scott.

 

“Yeah,” Scott's face showed true joy this time, “Shuffle board? Uh, maybe not swimming since you're pretty drunk. Oh! Buffet!”

 

“Sold!” Stiles agreed, then turned to his cards and frowned, “In fact, I fold. Thanks for the game, gentleman and gentle lady. It was a pleasure giving you all my money.”

 

“Night, Steve!” They called, dealing a new guy in without batting an eye.

 

“Steve?” Scott asked.

 

“They got it wrong from the door and I wasn't going to bother,” Stiles shrugged, “I was hoping that one guy was up for some fun, but he's already met his Soulmate. I swear, I'm never going to lose my virginity.”

 

“You will,” Scott said weakly, smile wavering. Then he frowned, “Wait. Wasn't there something about Soulmarks and the Bermuda islands when we were kids?”

 

Stiles snorted. Now he remembered.

 

“Yeah, there's this statue of a guy who's still waiting for his Soulmate or whatever. His Soulmark isn't visible on it, but most people figure it's between his thighs or whatever. I had a theory that it wasn't visible because he doesn't have one. Like me.”

 

“Oh! That's right!” Scott smacked his hand into the other decisively, “You thought he might be that Roman soldier guy! Man, we had some far-fetched ideas as kids, huh?”

 

Scott laughed and Stiles forced out a chuckle. Sure. Far-fetched.

 

The buffet was heavenly, the drinks after were fruity, and Stiles woke up with his arms around Scott in his tiny-ass bed and a reminder that he really did miss his pack. Scott was making soft, soothing werewolf noises in his sleep between snores and Stiles pressed a chaste kiss to the back of his neck before slipping away to piss, dress, and find more alcohol. He was going to need it.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles spent the 48 hours that it took to get to Bermuda between the casinos and the pool. He actually did enjoy himself and managed to get a hand job from someone he vaguely remembered was hot and androgynous, but that was it for action. Maybe he'd lose his virginity on the way back after his poor pale body stopped peeling and he turned deliciously tan like Scott, Isaac, and Allison perpetually were. In the mean time, he was sore, covered in blisters, and cranky by the time they got to the island. He had been pleased to find out they were going nowhere near Somerset Island or the statue. The harbour was in the north-eastern part of the island, not the southern tip. Sadly, sun poisoning kept Stiles in the hotel bed for the first day of the trip, but he made it out for the second.

 

Scott's idea of a good time included everything tourist related, so after popping some antibiotics and pain killers, lathering on enough sunblock to drown a rat, and buying a UV resistant shirt, Stiles joined him. They scubba dived in the reefs, went out on jetski's, swam with dolphins, and spent a ridiculous amount of time eating local food and dancing. The shops all closed up early and the later parts of the evening were spent on the beach watching the three lovebirds watch the sun set and sigh romantically while rubbing Allison's belly.

 

Stiles hated it.

 

The last day out Stiles was intrigued by a tour guide who was pitching for them to go out and swim with sharks. He'd seen enough B movies to know that this was dangerous and not part of the package, but he'd also been miserable enough not to care. Isaac and Allison cared. They cared enough to get into a ridiculous fight with Scott about it, in which Scott actually took Stiles' side, probably because the sharks were the first time Stiles showed an ounce of interest in his surroundings. Finally Allison and Isaac left in tears and Scott gave them a worried look before turning to Stiles with a big grin.

 

“Okay! Let's go swim with sharks!”

 

Stiles grinned and got on the tiny-ass boat with the rusty shark cage of death and handed over what little money the casino hadn't claimed to swim with the ocean's most televised predators. About an hour out to sea and he was regretting it in more than one way. He felt bad that Scott, Isaac, and Allison had fought, even though he reasoned that it was probably good for them every once in a while. He also had forgotten he got seasick and had puked off the edge twice. Between that and his sun poisoning he was feeling like shit and looking forward to going in the water if only to cool off. It was unbearably hot on the tin can of a boat.

 

Finally they reached the spot that the guide promised had lots of sharks and he lowered the cage into the water. He, Scott, and the other insane person who had agreed to go with them by the name of Matt all got into scuba gear, walked the wide wooden plank to the bobbing cage- Stiles was sure this wasn't how it was supposed to be done but didn't speak up- and jumped into the cage.

 

Bubbles covered their heads and Stiles took that first weird breath in through the mask and looked around himself. The cage door was open and banging against the cage. Stiles muffled a terrified scream, grabbed the cage door, and yanked it closed just as a shadow swam past their cage. Scott gripped Stiles' arm and he felt claws prick his sensitive skin. He glanced at his alpha to see Scott's eyes burning red through the mask. He was safe. The sharks weren't the only predators in the water and Scott wouldn't let Stiles be hurt.

 

The cage door's latch was broken so Scott moved towards it and brushed Stiles aside. He held it shut with one strong hand and Stiles felt his pounding heart begin to calm again. He looked around himself, but didn't find this as enjoyable as the reef as it was mostly just dark with flickers of light from above. Nothing exciting to look at. Very few fish. Fish were what sharks ate so he was starting to doubt they were actually going to see anything, despite the shadow he'd seen. That might have been a trick of the light or panic induced.

 

After a good ten minutes Stiles was considering surfacing and demanding their money back when a few bits of something wandered down past their little metal basket. Fish bits. The bastard was chumming the water! Stiles had _definitely_ seen this in a shark movie and started up when Scott grabbed his arm with his free hand and made a muffled sound through the mask. He let go of Stiles and pointed eagerly.

 

A beautiful shark, striped and graceful, glided past their cage while seeking the source of the chum that had been dropped. Stiles stared in wonder. It was a Tiger shark, often maligned by the media but essentially harmless to people. The next two looked like the sort seen in shows so they were either Dusky or Galapagos sharks, as those were the most common ones in the area. They were so much bigger than Stiles had ever imagined, and they moved like silk through the water, smooth and beautiful. Stiles was instantly enamored. He spent his childhood with banshees, werecoyotes, and werewolves, so it was no wonder that gigantic predators were mesmerizing to him. He waited till one was halfway past and put out his hand to touch it as it swam alongside the cage. Scott made a sound of disapproval but the great beast didn't even acknowledge him. He was a small blip on it's radar, if noticed at all. People weren't their food source and Stiles was behind bars, an otherwise boring facet of this shark's day. After too short a time the beep sounded that meant their air was getting low and they reluctantly surfaced and walked the plank towards the ship once more.

 

Stiles felt heavy after being in the water, and with his bad leg sore from kicking for so long in the water and his historic clumsiness what happened next was absolutely not a shock to anyone. In fact, even as he toppled over and fell into the shark-baited water, Stiles' only thought was the word ' _typical'_ spoken in sarcastic and self-reproving tones. Stiles had already pulled his mask off, so he had to shut his eyes when the water went over his head. He'd taken a breath in, so he wasn't about to drown instantly, but he did have to get _out of the water_. Docile these sharks might be, but that didn't mean _safe_. They were still gigantic predators and he was a clumsy FBI agent who got taken out by a stray bullet while buying a caramel latte from a responsibly sourced cafe.

 

Stiles opened his eyes when the bubbles passed and looked around while his heart pounded in his ears. Up above he heard Scott howl, the vibrations felt all the way down to his bones even while muffled by the water. The nearest shark to Stiles, who was not in any way threatening him or even looking his way, heard that sound and took off with his tail between his fins. Stiles forced down a laugh and surfaced, letting Scott and Matt pull him back up onto the boat. Scott was shouting, presumably at Stiles, but as he cleared his ears it turned out he was arguing with the sea captain.

 

The guy who ran the boat was a phobe. He hated werewolves, and now that he knew that Scott was an alpha werewolf he had a fucking harpoon turned on him! Stiles froze and stared at them in horror, wondering how the hell they were going to get out of this. He stepped forward, intending to do his job in the pack of communications officer (he refused to be called an Emissary) and talk the bastard down.

 

“Hey, hey, buddy, we're all friends here! We came to see sharks, you showed us sharks, you got paid, we're happy with our experience and you with our payment. Now we all head back to shore and we never see each other again. Good? Great! Now let's-”

 

The harpoon went through Scott's leg. Stiles screamed. Scott screamed. Matt fainted. The guy running the boat pissed himself. Stiles pointed and laughed. The guy pulled out a gun.

 

Things were not going _well_.

 

The captain kept them at gunpoint all the way to harbor. Scott had whispered to Stiles that he smelled wolfsbane and Stiles had sucked it up and stayed quiet. The guy had already proven he had zero compunction about shooting them. Negotiations were off the table. When they got to shore and he had the upper hand he'd arrest the fucker, jurisdiction be damned. He was just searching for something to bind him with. A spell might be his only option, so Stiles was carefully twisting a rope in his hands down by his knees and spelling it to hold the bastard.

 

Finally they reached land and the guy was distracted tying off the boat. It was now or never, so Stiles and Scott acted at once. Scott leaped forward and knocked the guy down while Stiles tackled the gun arm, disarmed him by slamming it against the boat side and knocking it into the water, and then quickly secured both arms behind his back. Scott pulled out the harpoon so he could heal while Stiles got the man up onto the dock and started shouting for the local police.

 

That was where it _really_ went to pot. The police showed up and were furious at Stiles 'citizen's arresting' a local. They insisted that Stiles had no right, and when he pointed out the guy had shot Scott, they wanted proof. Scott's leg was healed. The blood on the harpoon was “probably a shark's” and Matt suddenly and conveniently didn't see a damn thing. In the end Stiles was arrested and shoved into the back of a golf cart while scowling angrily and announcing he was _fucking FBI god damn it_. The cops drove off as Scott promised him it would be okay from the cage secured to the back of the cart, because of course the cops hated werewolves, too.

 

The local police force only had one prison cell capable of holding an alpha werewolf on the entire island.

 

It was in Somerset village.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Somerset Village was cute as hell, and had Stiles not been imprisoned there he would have been cooing over the bright white houses built on stilts in the water- honestly, he was seeing retirement possibility here- and the perfect pastel little buildings along the gorgeous beach. He wanted a drink and a break, but what he got was a graciously cool prison cell and a nap on a hard cot. He'd been in the FBI. He could sleep anywhere. He got his doze in while they called in his credentials and when they opened the door he felt pretty damn refreshed.

 

“You and your _alpha_ are free to go,” The man groused, “You should have said he was a True Alpha.”

 

“I did,” Stiles replied sharply, snatching his credentials from the guy's hands and stomping out of the room.

 

Scott was outside the station looking morose and miserable, “I'm so sorry, Stiles. This was supposed to be a great vacation from you and you've hated every second. I shouldn't have made you come.”

 

Stiles sighed and clapped a hand on his shoulder as they began to walk towards the center of town and the hopes of transportation back to the northern part of the island and the rest of their party.

 

“Scott, let me explain something to you,” Stiles stated, “I'm clinically depressed. That's not going away. Ever. Work helped. Medicine helped. Therapy helped. Lots of little things _help_ , but I've got a shitty childhood and no future happiness to bolster it. I get moments of happy, you know? Playing cards. Flirting with someone _right_ before they shoot me down. Swimming with sharks. That moment Isaac fell off the jetski and screamed like a girl. I was genuinely happy in those moments! I was! But I will never, ever be real happy, Scott. It's not going to happen no matter how pretty the beach, colorful the sunset, free the vacation, or sexy the statue.”

 

“Wait, what?” Scott blinked at that last line.

 

Stiles was frozen in place. He'd seen hundreds of pictures of the Statue of Somerset Village, but none of them had done him actual justice. He was six feet tall not counting the huge marble podium he sat on, and perfectly preserved from the salty sea air by a vibrating magical spell that felt as old as the island itself. Like the statues of old in Rome, he had been painted- or retained his natural color?- but unlike them his bright colors had withstood the test of time thanks to the spell. He wore no lorica segmenta in this heat, and one presumed that it had been discarded and rusted away long after he was frozen hundreds of years ago. A red focale- a type of scarf- lay on the ground draping his feet over his brown caligae sandals, his galea helmet was beside them and also frozen in time. His matching red tunica was peeled away from his upper torso and draped over his lower half, leaving only the outline of his balteus and baltea beneath the flowing fabric. This partial nudity with the helmet and scarf nearby left the impression he had stripped them off and thrown them down in a hurry to impress whoever saw his form, and what an impressive one that was! So magnificent was the sculptor- or if one believed the legend the model- that beads of sweat had been captured along his torso and the scruff on his jaw formed actual individual hairs. One hand rested on his hip showing corded muscles in his arm, but the other hand extended to one side as if in offer to a lover for a stroll along the beach. His head was turned towards that invisible figure and his expression was sad and wistful. It was so realistic that it looked as if a man were standing on the podium, pausing to collect gazes and coin like the silver painted living statue performers back in Washington.

 

“Stiles?” Scott asked, voice sounding far off and alarmed, “Stiles, I think we should leave.”

 

“Can you take the picture? My phone's dead,” Stiles replied, voice sounding flat and muffled.

 

“This doesn't feel healthy,” Scott pleaded, “Come on. Let's just leave.”

 

“Everyone's doing it,” Stiles replied, stepping into the line of teenage girls and cougars who were leering at the half-dressed statue, “Wow, he looks so real, don't you think?”

 

“Definitely not healthy,” Scott's voice was firm now, “Stiles, that guy is _not your Soulmate_. He's not even real.”

 

“I know!” Stiles' voice had suddenly come sharply into focus. Stiles realized he was standing in the center of the square with legs braced as Scott tried to pull him out of it, _and failed_. People had vacated the line and were staring at Stiles in alarm. Scott's eyes were red. The police were headed back over to them, and they looked pissed to have to arrest an alpha twice in one day, “I just want a picture with the statue, Scott! I know I don't have a Soulmark! I don't get a mate, but _you get two!_ I just want a fucking picture with the statue! Is that so much to ask?!”

 

The police had paused, because now the crowd was on Stiles' side. Teenage girls with tears in their eyes were pushing Stiles towards the statue, separating him from a stunned and frightened Scott, and shouting encouragement. A dozen phones were snapping picture after picture of the Guy With No Soulmark as he was pushed up onto the dais and into the arms of the beautiful statue.

 

Stiles fit in that extended arm. He slid into place as if he belonged, one leg between sculpted marble ones that were slightly spread against the windy island weather. He sagged against the muscular figure and ended up staring into his hazel eyes as that extended arm seemed to wrap around his waist. The darkening twilight triggered the flashes on the cameras so he was able to see the face before him in flickering light as if in slow motion. It looked so real, but it didn't _feel_ real. It felt like solid marble and jolted his bad knee painfully enough that Stiles choked on a sob of pain. For his knee, of course. Not his damned heart that wouldn't stop _hoping_ against hope that-

 

The statue fell.

 

Of course it did, Stiles' piss poor luck was well established.

 

The statue and Stiles toppled into the crowd as people behind the statue screamed and fled and people in front of it captured his humiliation frame-by-frame as his selfie moment turned into destruction of public property.

 

Stiles picked himself up with a groan and then looked down with a gasp, realizing his own burgeoning magic had _broken the preservation spell_. The statue was probably shattered. Centuries of preservation until Stiles Stilinski had come along and besmirched it with his post-teenage angst!

 

A man in his early thirties blinked up at Stiles from the cobblestone ground, looking absolutely gobsmacked and then... hopeful. When he spoke the words were another language, but phrased as a question so Stiles did the only thing he could when facing an absolute god of a man asking him something in a foreign tongue.

 

“Yes,” Stiles stated firmly, “Yes to whatever you just asked. My hand in marriage, keys to my apartment, my liver, whatever you want it's yours.”

 

Eyebrows like black caterpillars descended and the beautiful face made a frankly sexy scowl and spoke more nonsense words that sounded like frustrated sarcasm. Stiles leaned back so he wasn't smothering the now angry guy and he moved lightning fast to crouch before Stiles, eyes narrowed in warning. Stiles sat back on his heels and stared up at him in confusion. What... was going on? This looked like the statue, was dressed like him, but he didn't look like he was sweeping Stiles into his arms to vow eternal love. He looked pissed.

 

“Um, hi,” Stiles tried, voice drowning in the mayhem around them.

 

People had paused in shock when the statue had turned human, but now they let up an excited roar and started taking pictures again, complete with flash in the darkening town lit only by street lights and cameras on video. The roman soldier was not impressed. He shoved his draping tunica aside and pulled out a stocky gladius, which he swung in a threatening arc before stepping close enough to Stiles to shove his face into his thigh.

 

“Holy shit, how much muscle do you have?” Stiles asked, groping his leg, “It still feels like stone!”

 

The soldier above him was shouting at everyone, and while the language was different the meaning was clear. _Get back!_

 

People were backing away and the police were trying to get them under control and question the two in the middle of the group. They wanted to know where the statue had gone, but Stiles had no idea how to explain to them that he'd just freed it. Besides, there were two cops and precedent meant that they were about to announce that they were a Soulmated pair and Roman Soldier here was the third in their now throuple. Stiles felt a pang of longing and looked up at the god to say goodbye, only to find piercing eyes gazing down at him. He reached down and gripped Stiles' upper arm, dragging him to his feet. An arm moved around Stiles' waist and he found himself plastered against the soldier once again. When he spoke this time it was soft, passionate, and only for Stiles... if only he could _understand him_.

 

“Yes again, to _literally anything you want from me,”_ Stiles stated firmly, “Seriously. My body is yours. Do with it what you will.”

 

The soldier nodded, apparently also willing to interpret Stiles' babble for his own purposes, and began to drag him from the center square. Scott had moved around the insane shouting crowd and was waving at him frantically.

 

“Here! Stiles! Statue Dude! Come here!” Scott flashed red eyes and roared and people made way _fast._

 

His Soldier pressed on, headed for Scott as the alpha held out a hand. If this really was Derek Hale, than he was a werewolf and could smell the connection between Stiles and Scott. As an omega without an alpha, Scott would be more than appealing. He'd be a necessity. Scott grabbed the soldier's free arm and led him quickly down an alley. Stiles lost track of their movements as he was swept up into the soldier's arms and the world became a blur of werewolf speed and stamina. When he was finally lowered to his feet again they were on a beach in the dark, the stars and moon their only guides as the dark water lapped nearby in high tide.

 

“Holy shit, Stiles,” Scott panted, “You don't do things by halves, do you?”

 

“Derek?” Stiles asked, hoping he had the right name.

 

“Sic amica mae?” Derek asked, pulling Stiles _intimately_ close.

 

“Oh my gods and goddesses, yes. Again yes. To everything.”

 

They kissed, mostly because it was corny and romantic and they were on a beach in the dark and had just found each other after one of them had waited literal _centuries_ , but also because they spoke two different languages and what else would you do when you found your Soulmate at last? So they kissed and it was so much better than Malia and Kira's mate's kiss from years before. It was toe-curling and mind-blanking, and tasted like salt from the sea. Stiles moaned against firm lips and stritching stubble and wrapped his arms around him helplessly. By the time the kiss ended he was not only deciding who would bottom first, he was picking out one of those cute-ass houses on stilts and trying to remember the name of the app that taught you languages.

 

“The hotel is _right here_ , you guys can't wait?” Scott whined miserably.

 

“He doesn't have a passport,” Stiles replied breathlessly, “I'm gonna have to apply for citizenship or smuggle him out like a hot, sexy statue.”

 

“Oh my god, we'll visit the Embassy tomorrow and file a magical spell petition, just come in off the beach! Trust me, it's not the place you want your first time. Sand is not your friend.”

 

“You are,” Stiles dragged Derek towards the lights of the hotel while Scott shuffled through the sand ahead of him, “You are my _best friend._ You are the best-est friend in the _whole world_.”

 

“If you say so,” Scott replied, sounding unsure and worried, “He's a werewolf, Stiles.”

 

“I guessed that part,” Stiles nodded, “When he carried me like his _bride_.”

 

“Are you sure about this?” Scott asked as they stepped into the hotel lobby and his mates descended on him in worry.

 

“Absolutely,” Stiles dragged the soldier towards the elevator doors, “C'mon hot stuff. Just one magic box, then a hallway, and I'm _all yours.”_

 

Derek found the elevator fascinating, but Stiles got their floor punched in before he hit every other button available, so he wasn't too worried. They got off on their floor and Derek let out an impressed whistle at the 'magic box' and let Stiles lead him down the hallway and into the room he was supposed to be sharing with one other. Isaac and Scott had stayed with Allison so far, and now Stiles would be sharing it with _Derek!_

 

“Oh, wow,” Stiles breathed, turning to give him a long look in the brighter artificial light, “You're real. You're actually real.”

 

“Real,” Derek tried out, stepping towards him.

 

He had a mark on his chest, right in the center, that hadn't been there when he'd been a statue and Stiles reached out to touch it. Derek winced and took in a sharp breath, glancing down at it in surprise. It looked like a shadowy outline of Madusa's head, snakes waving, and it was raised and red like Soulmarks became when mates touched for the first time. Stiles felt an answering heat on his own chest and quickly stripped off his REM t-shirt to stare down at his chest. The Gorgon's symbol lay there as well.

 

“Medusa might have been cursed, but she didn't curse you,” Stiles breathed, “She led us to each other. How many lifetimes would you have had to live alone, without a Soulmark, suffering and cursed, if she hadn't frozen you so that you could meet me in your first one? The doctors said no Soulmark means I'm a new soul. So for whatever reason, curses or gods or fates or wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey, we were born centuries apart. So instead of meeting each lifetime you would have had to wait lifetimes for me, but now... now we can be together.”

 

Stiles raised a hand and held it out for Derek, who stepped forward with hope shining in a very serious expression. Stiles had a feeling that once they learned to speak each other's language he was going to be the stern one and Stiles the silly one. Derek took Stiles' hand in his and for a moment they stared at each other in wonder. Then Derek's eyes flashed with lust and he pulled Stiles against himself hungrily.

 

No words were needed for this dance. Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek's neck and gripped his hair as he deepened the kiss to glide their tongues together. Stiles groaned hungrily and Derek responded with a deeper, lupine growl of raw lust. Stiles' erection was rubbing against metal armor covered in cloth and he needed Derek naked. Now. Derek ceased groping Stiles' willowy body and moved towards his hips to reach beneath the layered fabric and undo his balteus. The metal belt with long links of groin protection hit the floor... and Stiles' toes.

 

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Stiles yelped and hopped away, rubbing at his unprotected toes miserably.

 

Derek rolled his eyes dramatically at his whimpy mate and stalked after him.

 

“Holy shit, that's hot,” Stiles groaned, making grabby hands at him as the tunica joined the balteus on the ground in a pool of red.

 

Derek was wearing only linen undergarments wrapped around his torso, but his erection had shifted them aside to reveal the rosy head of his penis. Like all born werewolves he was unshorn and the head was wet with his lust. Stiles licked his lips, wanting a taste immediately, and dropped to his knees. Derek paused, one eyebrow quirking up in silent communication. He'd allow Stiles to suck on him, but this was _not how things were ending_.

 

“Like I said,” Stiles leaned forward to pull the linen away, “Whatever you want.”

 

Stiles licked at the salty head and moaned lewdly, awestruck by Derek's pungent taste and shocked as he drew a sound of wonder from the man above him. He had no idea how to suck cock properly, but he worked his mouth around the tip enough to make him pull away while panting hard. He was close to blowing his load and _Stiles_ had done that! Stiles stumbled to his feet while fumbling his swim trunks and dropped them to the ground in a heap. He reached for Derek again and the man pulled him close to snog him stupid. They fumbled their way to the bed and Derek made a surprised sound at the bounce and then bounced it with musclebound arms a few more times while Stiles laughed and got jogged beneath him.

 

“Yes, it's springy and fun!” Stiles laughed, “Now take me on it, you hunk of burning love!”

 

Derek growled in agreement, although how much of it he'd understood was a stretch, and marked up Stiles' throat with eager love bites. Stiles moaned, arched, and jerked his hips in supplication. Every nip and suckle on his throat made him ache more for the powerful man above him. Derek quickly wrapped one huge, calloused hand around both their dicks and began a slow glide that had Stiles' eyes rolling into the back of his head.

 

“Oh gods, oh fuck, yes!” Stiles gasped, shaking with need. He was nearly completely inexperienced and doomed to embarrass himself, but he couldn't even explain that he needed Derek to slow down or finish fast as well!

 

Stiles let out a cry of relief and pleasure as he spilled onto Derek's hand, cock, and his own flat belly after just four strokes. Derek rumbled above him, pleased and content to switch to jerking himself off alone. Stiles tried to get his hand in on the action and found his wrapped in Derek's. Stiles' come was making the path smoother as he got his first handful of another man's dick. Derek's eyes fell closed, his lips parted in pleasure, and he moaned softly as he guided Stiles' movements. Stiles was quivering with anticipation despite his recent release making him sleepy and heavy. They were already Soulmates, but Derek was about to mark Stiles with his most intimate scent and he _wanted it_. He wanted Scott and Isaac and every werewolf around to be able to smell that Stiles was _mated_ and _owned_ by this gorgeous werewolf soldier from fantasy.

  
When hot ropes of come hit his belly Stiles moaned anew, lit up with fresh desire and shivering in pleasure at Derek's claim to his body. Derek gasped through his climax and then caught Stiles' lips in a suddenly tender and soft kiss. Stiles responded in kind, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. This wasn't just _sex._ This was his _mate_ and they had both been alone for so long. Stiles brought in a shuddering breath when the kiss broke and Derek smiled down at him, his own eyes reflecting years of loss and sorrow.

 

“It's gonna be okay,” Stiles whispered, using his clean hand to stoke his rough cheek, “Everything is going to be okay now. I have weird romantic luck, so it will balance out your bad luck and we're going to be _okay now_. Both of us.”

 

 

They slept entwined, Derek holding him so tight from behind that Stiles found he absolutely loved being the little spoon. He felt safe and secure and loved. His heart was fit to explode as he lay grasped in Derek's arms. In the morning a hard prod to his ass left him with a whole new goal and he quickly fetched the lube he'd brought in hopes of landing someone who hadn't found their Soulmate yet on the cruise. He didn't bother with condoms, but he did coax Derek into letting him run the shower and wash up first. Stiles had fingered himself while jerking off before, so he knew how to clean up, but he'd never been stretched wide enough for _this_ before. He'd have to hope that the history books were right and Derek had enough experience to know what to do.

  
Stiles returned to the bed and showed him the lube. Derek grimaced at the scent, but was intrigued by how slick it was and quickly stroked it over his cock. Stiles offered up his ass, posing on hands and knees with back arched and a coy glance over his shoulder. Derek growled in approval, grabbed the bottle, and got to work fingering Stiles into a hot mess. Stiles was panting in pleasure as Derek unerringly found his prostate- definitely experienced- to distract him while he stretched his untried hole. When Derek took his fingers away Stiles actually _whimpered_ , so when Derek lined himself up Stiles' fears were gone in the face of blinding lust.

 

It hurt, of course. It would be foolish to expect Stiles to take something that big painlessly the first time, but it was tempered by pleasure as Derek teased the head of Stiles' prick as he slowly sank into his body. He held still once he heard Stiles' panting, and when he moved again the slighter man's body had relaxed enough to accept his thrusts. Derek moaned deeply, his voice going straight to Stiles' cock, and began to take him with long, deep thrusts that shook Stiles to his core. His balls were slapping back against those thick thighs, his cock dripping onto the bed with each stroke across his p-spot, and the man behind him was gripping his plush ass tight enough to bruise. Stiles fell forward onto his face and Derek draped himself over him and bit at his shoulder, growling and moaning as if worshiping the man below him. Even after he emptied his balls into Stiles' body he kept thrusting, his cock teasing Stiles until he felt like a single touch would set him off. Stiles was letting out continual moans and pleading for release, his arms trapped above his head as Derek's weight kept him in place. The werewolf finally reached down and took him in hand, stroking his aching shaft until Stiles came with a keen of release.

 

Stiles had never had an orgasm so strong in the past. His arms shook, his body clenched around Derek's softening prick, the werewolf's come dripped down his balls in a teasing tickle, and he felt the climax from deep inside his testes all the way to the tip of his burning hot, sensitized member. Stiles felt drained when it finally ended, and sagged beneath Derek in absolute supplication. The werewolf wrapped his arm around Stiles' waist and held him up, guiding him onto his side so they could lay together, his cock slowly wilting until it slid free. There was some discomfort, a bit of pain, and itching from all that jizz, but Stiles couldn't be arsed to move and deal with it. Instead he let himself drift off in Derek's arms and didn't wake up until someone was banging on their door.

 

“Stiles!” Scott's voice called, “We have to check out! The boat leaves this evening! Is that guy still not a statue?”

 

Stiles blinked in confusion, then felt an arm tighten around his waist. Of course. He'd unfrozen The Statue of Somerset Village and now he was in bed with a literal Greek god. Well. Roman. Whatever. The point was, _huzzah!_

 

“I'M MATED!” Stiles shrieked, jerking upright in the bed and unintentionally slamming his head into Derek's nose. Derek swore and covered his nose, but Stiles was pretty sure that he had been hurt more than the werewolf. He had a goose egg forming.

 

Stiles muttered apologies nonetheless and crawled out of bed to head for the shower. Then he paused. Derek would want him to smell like them for a bit, and frankly Stiles wanted that, too. Instead he wiped up a bit with some toilet paper, wrapped a towel around his waist, and opened the door to lean against the door jam and give Scott his smuggest grin. Isaac and Allison were there, too. Allison shamelessly ogled him but Isaac gave him a horrified look and covered his nose with one hand. Scott air high-fived him because he was his best bro but also didn't want to touch Stiles' unwashed hand.

 

“Dude, pack up fast. We have to be out of here in ten minutes,” Scott insisted.

 

“How are we getting him home?” Allison worried.

 

“The videos are all over the internet,” Isaac told him, “People want it to be made into a feature length film. You can show them to the embassy to get him credentials at least, but I doubt you can get him on the boat.”

 

“I'm _not_ leaving him here,” Stiles pointed out, “I'm staying until we can get this sorted. Can you talk to the cruise director while I talk to the embassy?”

 

“A lifetime together on a paradise island,” Allison sighed, then gave both her mates a sour look as if she'd been shortchanged.

 

Stiles tried not to gloat too much, but it was a near thing. Instead he slipped back inside and handed Derek his clothes to indicate it was time to get going. Then he washed the worst of the funk off, mostly off his ass crack and balls, and made sure to leave the trails on his belly alone. Derek watched him use the sink curiously and then joined him to give his cock a liberal scrub, sniffing at the soap curiously. Stiles dressed, packed up quickly since he hadn't really unpacked anything, made an attempt at putting Derek in Stiles' clothes that failed miserably, and then led his mate out of the hotel room in his original clothes.

 

“Why is he in a dress?” Isaac asked.

 

“It's a _tunica,”_ Stiles sassed, “And it's what Roman soldiers wore back in his time.”

 

“Tunica,” Derek agreed, latching on to the word he knew and then waiting hopefully for Stiles to give him a new one.

 

“Dress,” Isaac provided uselessly, earning a slap from Scott.

 

“Dress,” Derek repeated, stressing the 's' and then smiling proudly.

 

“Oh my gosh, bless your bunny teeth!” Stiles cooed, stroking his cheek and melting against him.

 

Scott checked out while Stiles pointed at things and told him words in English. Sofa, plant, desk, door, elevator, suitcases, all got pointed at and listed in Derek's charming accent. It sounded vaguely Middle-Eastern. A few women saw them together and gave Stiles the kind of catty glare that he had been giving couples and trouples for years and he felt _vindicated_.

 

“My mate,” Stiles purred, putting a hand over Derek's chest.

 

“My mate,” Derek replied, touching Stiles' chest.

 

His fingers moved to trace the hidden Soulmark which was still a bit raw, but apparently pain was a thing that Stiles was into because he felt instantly hot under the collar.

 

“Soulmark,” Stiles whispered to him like a promise.

 

“Soulmark,” Derek echoed, leaning in for a kiss.

 

“Oh my _gods_ ,” Scott whined, “Can you keep it in your dress and/or pants until we get to the boat?!”

 

Stiles broke the kiss, “Are you not listening? He won't be allowed on the boat. I'm stuck here for a bit,” Stiles replied, then paused, “Shit. I need to call my director.”

 

After that it was a super boring rush of meeting with embassy personnel, paperwork, showing them the video, insisting it wasn't faked, paperwork, trying to get Derek to talk, Stiles talking _too much_ , paperwork, Stiles calling his director once his phone finally charged, and a whole lot more _paperwork._ Finally Stiles checked into a room the embassy was paying for which was even smaller than the one in the boat and threw his bag onto the bed. Derek pointed to it and proudly announced it was a _bad_.

 

“That's my man,” Stiles chuckled, “But it's _bed_.”

 

“Bed,” Derek's eyebrows waggled suggestively and Stiles' ass clenched, “I hope you aren't going to be old fashioned and refuse to bottom just cause you're older. Also, not at the moment. Now, we shop.”

 

Stiles dragged Derek out to the shops, almost literally because he was quite put out that Stiles wasn't about to put out, and began shoving clothes into his arms.

 

“Oh my gosh, you would look _amazing_ in basketball shorts. Like, that ass. _Umph_. And of course we need swim shorts. Can't go without those. Grooming kit. Good idea. I don't shave like you probably do. A phone? Hm. Maybe in a few days. For now let's focus on shoes. You seem like a military boot guy to me, but we'll never find those here so let's just keep your caligae for now. They're a gay wet dream anyway.”

 

“Caligae,” Derek announced, holding up a red pair of sandles from a rack.

 

“Or, get you the first thing you actually seem interested in. Leave it to a Roman dude to be into shoes. Okay. What else? Oh, hats!”

 

No hats. Derek hated hats and they hated Derek right back. Also hated were shirts, which Derek flexed in and grimaced at whenever Stiles shoved him into them. He ended up in the softest material that Stiles had ever found in a shirt, a silky button up that had Derek mesmerized as he stroked it between his fingers. He probably felt like royalty, and it got him to abandon his metal over-wear at last.

 

They met Scott and his mates on the peer to say goodbye after that, Scott hugging him tight and telling him the cruise had promised him and his partner a trip back on a different boat as soon as they were able. They were expecting it to make them money because at that point Stiles and Derek meeting had gone viral and the cruise line was under pressure to provide them safe passage back to the States and also were becoming famous for hooking them up. Stiles didn't tell Scott that Bermuda was frustrated with Derek's situation. He was a tourist trap's wet dream and they didn't want him leaving the island. They couldn't fight Stiles' bonding and they were giving Derek citizenship, but _no passport._ Their reasoning was that Derek couldn't speak any known language, was vulnerable, and they were responsible for his safety since he'd been 'unfrozen' on their island. Stiles thought it was likely they'd never get to leave so he was making plans to survive there. If Bermuda wanted a tourist spot in Derek they were going to get one.

 

They headed for the sights. It was nearly nightfall so Stiles took Derek to a concert, figuring it was as close to the artistic sights he might have seen in Rome as he could get. The classical music moved the hulking man to tears and he held Stiles and stared at the instruments in wonder. Stiles was falling for the strong soldier with a gentle heart more each moment. Afterwards they had a very late dinner and Derek, who hadn't complained once even though Stiles had completely forgotten to feed them both, ate like a man long starved. Stiles had tried to order the most Mediterranean dish he could find for him and sure enough the man loved the couscous and lamb dish. Dessert was another thing, as the werewolf gagged at the very smell of the sweet cakes. Stiles ended up eating both. They left after having a glass of wine which seemed to relax Derek like nothing else had.

 

They returned to their hotel room where Derek helped Stiles fall asleep by fingering his ass while sucking his soul out through his dick, coming on him again, and then wrapping him up in his big arms like the reverse teddy bear he was.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles' dad was shocked, delighted, and talking about visiting them as soon as he got a passport since Stiles returning was apparently a tricky issue. The FBI had offered to help, but so far had gotten nowhere. Stiles and his mate were on the news fairly often and the cameras were getting tiring, especially after the first few times Derek tried to lop off a reporters head. The police had gotten involved and Stiles had had to coax him into surrendering the weapon or he'd be locked up. Derek was sour about it and hadn't looked at him or attempted to talk for two solid days. So Stiles' honeymoon was going pretty damn well, despite a few hitches.

 

To get him to forget his stolen weapon Stiles put his plan into action. They weren't going anywhere soon and his vacation money was just about gone, so Stiles had gotten info on renting space in the main square of Somerset Village. His podium was already a hot spot, but when Stiles told the town that he wanted Derek _back on it_ they had kicked out the current renter in a hurry. They knew a money maker when the saw one, and the more crowds Derek drew in the more money people would spend on stores and restaurants nearby. Stiles got Derek into his old clothes, made him a lorica segmentata out of cardboard and tinfoil, gave him a plastic gladius covered in more tinfoil, and put him up on the podium with those hated hats all around him. Derek had scowled down at Stiles for a few minutes and Stiles had struck a combat pose and then gestured to Derek eagerly.

 

Derek rolled his eyes and indicated the fake-ass weapon he clearly thought was pathetic and embarrassing. Stiles grasped his hands in a pleading motion. People were gathering and pointing out that it was the same guy. This was _important_ , damn it! Derek sighed and struck a pose, and the crowd went wild. Derek jumped a bit and then looked around at people tossing money into the hats and connected the dots. He gave Stiles a smirk and then moved to a new pose. And another. The photos clicked and Derek tolerated them because at least it wasn't night time with those scary flashes. Then he removed the silly armor Stiles had made him, peeled down his tunica while people wolf-whistled, and took up the pose that his statue form had been in. Stiles' heart stopped and silence fell on the square.

 

Then every horny person in the square tried to climb the podium at once and pandemonium reigned. Derek punched three people into unconsciousness before Stiles got to him and shouted people down. The injured were taken to the hospital while bragging about 'fighting a gladiator' so probably they wouldn't come after them. Stiles widened the ring of hats and told people to back off and pay for poses with the Statue of Somerset Village _one at a time._

 

They paid.

 

Well.

 

“Wow,” Stiles breathed as they left the square before noon to avoid the worst heat of the day, “We made so much money!”

 

“Money,” Derek nodded solemnly, and then pulled Stiles against him for a long, deep kiss, “Mine.”

 

“Um... the money is yours? Sure. You earned it! You can be all man of the house if you want to. I'm weirdly into that.”

 

Derek nuzzled Stiles' earlobe and whispered into his ear this time, “My mate.”

 

“Oh. Your _mate._ Yeah,” Stiles breathed, “I'm yours.”

 

They kissed slowly together and then Stiles tugged him away to their hotel room. They got a pizza delivered and Derek moaned over it and then moaned over Stiles afterwards. Stiles got him into costume and back on the dais again that evening, but they left before it got dark and the people would start to take photos with flash. They'd gotten less customers this time because people were complaining about the flare from Derek's werewolf eyes, so when Stiles got home he took out his laptop and looked up poses that would avoid flares. He went to the nearest office store, which was annoyingly far, and had them print up a bunch of big signs. Derek studied the poses in the picture and the next day went well. He was fully aware of his draw and was proud to contribute to their income, but after a few months the embassy officially issued Derek his 'birth certificate' and a non-drivers ID and then... cut them off. No more funded housing.

 

Stiles had expected this, but not quite so soon. It appeared the wheels of bureaucracy moved fast when necessary. Stiles needed more money for his plan so he checked them into a rental room in someone's summer house via AirBnB and contacted his director again.

 

His boss was out of ideas. Bermuda was under British jurisdiction and they were not going to let Derek go. He was bringing in tourists by the boatload and they were excited to have anything and everything to do with Derek, including watch him as he took to the beach and began making primitive tools out of whatever he could find during his downtime. Within a few weeks Stiles had cashed in whatever he could and given up on being in the FBI, but it wasn't quite enough to buy them a home. He'd apply to work in the police force once he was sure he could leave Derek alone each day, but for now his mate needed him. So he was left pimping out his mate as a photo op while touring boathouses and trying to catch a break.

 

Derek, apparently, had his own plans. Once he'd managed to make a pile of primitive tools, which Stiles was relieved to find were not new weapons, he began to build something using driftwood on the beach. Stiles decided that this was a good thing for him, but had to stop him from chopping down the local trees. Stiles took him to a hardware store and Derek nearly shit himself picking out wood. He took it all to the beach and began working again, nearly neglecting Stiles and his work posing for tourists in his excitement. After a few days Stiles started to realize that Derek wasn't just aimlessly building. The dude was building a frigging boat.

 

Stiles went with it. Whatever. He put up a sign at their rental podium inviting people to see the Roman Soldier Build A Boat and people started showing up and taking pictures and sighing over Derek as he worked shirtless on the beach. They got heckled a bit for building there, but Stiles made it work by renting out a pier and getting poor Derek to move the damn thing. He walked it through the water like a freaking legend.

 

Derek loved the new pier though and the boat quickly advanced. It was huge with a flat bottom, which had Stiles questioning where the hell he planned on taking it. Until he started building up the top. Into a house. Derek, understanding that they were struggling and essentially begging on the streets, was _building them a houseboat_ after having seen Stiles preferred them. Stiles wasn't at all sure that this would fly. They had to be inspected, right? Didn't they need licenses?

 

While Stiles did research and tried to figure out if Derek's pride and joy would be allowed, Derek continued to build up their houseboat. He'd used the coatings for protecting modern boats so a lot of what he was doing was a mixture of modern and ancient technology. As such, Stiles wasn't surprised to find that when Derek got to making the inside it was much the same. He had a loft inside, with a ladder leading up to L shaped sleeping and storage quarters. The downstairs had an adorable kitchenette and a nook across from it. The living area had built in seating all around and shelves for the books Derek was quickly falling in love with. When Derek finished the bench seating he made fluffing motions towards to tell Stiles he needed pillows, and then managed the word despite the fact they were mostly working on conversational language. Stiles bought pillows. Derek liked the blue ones best.

 

The end results were beautiful. It was a tiny one-room home with the space under the bed as a bathroom, space across from it as storage, and a lovely little nook as their dining area across from the kitchenette. Above their main area were exposed wooden beams and a skylight that Derek put a hatch into, not really understanding that it could have a glass top. Stiles left it because it was wonderful and he'd worked so hard to weatherproof the hatch. Their house boat even had a covered porch with two doors for boarding.

 

Unfortunately, his understanding of modern equipment was minimal. Stiles had introduced him to the idea of windows, but he hadn't understood how to install them so they had muddled through it together. Derek's kitchenette _looked_ like a modern one, but it was made like an ancient one. He lined the wooden 'refrigerator' with clay and made it into an ice box like what must have been used in his home in ancient times, although in all likelihood he'd combined it with new ideas since he doubted they'd had the same set ups then. Derek stocked it full of ice from the corner store and grinned as he stuffed beer and lunch meat in on top of the ice. In his defense, it _did work_. The stove, however, did not. He'd made it _look_ like the stove in their rental place, even going so far as to paint it white before Stiles could explain that it wasn't going to fix things, but it didn't _work_. Stiles stopped him before he set it on fire. Then he took time during the day to leave Derek while he was posing for money and get someone in to install wiring. Since the wiring hadn't gone in when it needed to they'd run it externally and covered it with piping. When Derek returned Stiles showed him the lights excitedly and Derek had praised him. Sexually. Repeatedly.

 

Stiles' next step was to get an oven and fridge actually put in, and that meant ripping out Derek's work and replacing it. He felt bad, but it was necessary in their hot climate. Stiles sold the things he'd made on Ebay and made BANK. Stiles wanted to use a gas stove, but with the entirely wooden boat it seemed a bad idea so he went electric and had a nice sized generator and solar system put on the roof. Last he put screens on their porch, which was something he actively did himself. Derek returned home to find the porch he'd built was bug-free, hung up a hammock, and collapsed into it as if he'd reached peace at last. The only issue they still had was plumbing and Stiles didn't really know how to fix that. He'd stopped Derek from using the toilet he'd built- it was just a toilet-shaped chair with a hole that led to the ocean below- and gotten them a camp toilet instead. Sink water was done the Roman way, or fairly close to it. A big ole plastic water cooler jug was hung up above them and when one wanted water one tipped it forward and out came water. Derek's sink was clay like his fridge, but instead of being sun-baked it was actually a ceramic bowl with a hole in the bottom. How he'd fired it was a mystery to Stiles as it was a big gray monstrosity with stones pressed into it that was oddly beautiful. Stiles suspected a local artisan had helped. Eventually the toilet issue was solved when another local donated a real marine toilet to them from a proper houseboat and Stiles made Derek rip up his disaster attempt- he pouted- and fill in the hole with a potable water storage tank. It was small for their size houseboat, but it would pass muster.

 

When Stiles realized just how much Derek had accomplished, namely after the boathouse had been inspected and _actually passed_ with very few modifications required after the fact, Stiles had a serious decision to make. Derek was thriving. He spoke enough English to get by from day to day. His excuse to stay watching after him was clearly unneeded. Stiles had even left him alone more than once to deal with various needs and to clean up his mistakes at the boathouse. Stiles had no excuse not to work now, especially since he'd used up the last of their savings getting the houseboat water-worthy and livable. They had a home now, a beautiful home that Derek had fucked him stupid in, and Stiles needed to provide for that home so Derek didn't have to be the neighborhood stud anymore.

 

So Stiles told Derek using what little English the gorgeous man had picked up over the last few months that he was going to get a job as police officer. Derek was proud. As far as he was concerned Stiles was going to be a soldier like he had been and made it clear that once his English was better he also wanted to enlist.

  
Then he'd taken Stiles up to their loft and handed him the lube.

 

Stiles was pretty sure he called on every god and goddess Derek had ever prayed to that night as he sank into Derek's body and fucked the gorgeous man's muscular ass. Derek had chosen to lay on his back, feet braced against the roof of their home, and a wicked leer on his face as he slowly stroked his cock. Stiles might have been physically topping, but Derek was in absolute control. Stiles did his level best to find his prostate and not blow his load the instant that hot, wet body swallowed him up. Derek guided him to his sweet spot by pinching Stiles' ass until he shifted to the right angle.

 

Stiles fucked Derek slowly at first, trying to keep himself calm enough to continue. Not only did he want to show Derek it was a good idea to let him do this _again_ , but he also didn't want to stop because it felt _glorious_. He soon sped up his thrusts and was close to coming his brains out when Derek spoke up, voice deep and sensual and calm.

 

“Not yet, Stiles.”

 

Stiles whimpered, stilled, and held himself in check while panting frantically. He reached for Derek's cock, figuring the bottom really _should_ come first, but Derek slapped his hand away and continued his lazy caresses himself.

 

“Move,” Derek ordered.

 

“Der, please,” Stiles whined as he began to slowly thrust into him once again, “I gotta.”

 

“Not yet, Stiles.”

 

“Oh, fuck! Derek! Ah!” Stiles choked out, thrusting faster as his urges built once more, “Oh gods, your ass is like a fucking volcano. You're so _hot_.”

 

“Burn you up,” Derek growled, fingers carding through Stiles' hair and sharp claws scratching at the back of his head.

 

Stiles was going to come. He was going to come and it was going to be amazing and awful all at once.

 

“Not yet, Stiles,” Derek tutted.

 

“Bastard!” Stiles cried out, pulling partway out and pinching the base to hold himself off.

 

“Your mate,” Derek corrected gently, voice slick with lust, “I'm close.”

 

Stiles groaned in agony and began to fuck him faster, harder, thinking of lacrosse and murder scenes and anything that would keep him from blowing his load before Derek was ready. It was worth it. Derek's hand sped up on his shaft and he let out a long, low groan, and his ass clenched around Stiles' dick and sucked the seed right out of him. Stiles' vision whited out, his jaw dropped, and he let out a ragged cry that sounded torn from his _soul_ as he pulsed into Derek's body.

 

“Oh gods,” Stiles breathed, collapsing onto him as Derek wrapped his legs around Stiles and held him close, “Oh my gods, that was amazing and awful and wonderful. I think I like bottoming better, but holy shit, that was fantastic and I wanna do it again sometime.”

 

“Good times,” Derek informed him somberly.

 

“I feel like you are saying 'special occasions'?”

  
“Yes.”

 

“Yeah, that works. Shower and sleep now.”

 

Their shower wasn't finished being installed yet, but they had a nice tiled set up made of sea shells that Derek had poured resin over which drained into their greywater tank, then they poured in treatment after each shower. They were still waiting for their freshwater tank to be delivered so they were using the bucket method. Derek washed up first and then Stiles did a quick spartan wash. They curled up together to sleep, Derek snuffling his hair lovingly. The air conditioner downstairs kept them cool enough at night and they spent their days outside, so it wasn't needed. Stiles would have a nice little cot for his dad when he visited, which he had promised to do in a few months time. By then Stiles planned to be established as a police officer. Once he was employed Derek could spend more time taking classes to improve his language and less on the streets begging. Thankfully when out of his armor he was bothered far less, but he was still a local celebrity and it was a pain in the ass. Once the water tank was installed they could at least travel a bit, floating away to sea and into international waters and some _peace and quiet._ They couldn't put to harbor in other areas without a passport for Derek, but Stiles planned to fight that once he was speaking a language others could understand.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

It had taken over a year, but Stiles had citizenship in Bermuda with Derek, and Derek finally had a passport to travel. He'd wanted to take the houseboat. Stiles knew it floated, knew it could make it out to sea and back, but did _not_ trust it to get all the way to the harbors in New York. So they took a the promised second half of the cruise and then two flights. The cruise was a blast this time. Derek was thrilled to play cards with so many people instead of just Stiles and ate like a bear the whole ride, trying new foods that they didn't always get on the island.

 

The flights were a different story. Derek was terrified but refused to admit it and just sat there and glared at the terrified hostess until they landed. He was drenched in sweat and Stiles saw the aborted move he made to touch the ground as they disembarked from the first flight. He only mocked him for it a little bit. Due to Derek's anxiety and Stiles' hatred of flying they took a break before their second flight and stayed the night. Stiles had to pay out a bit on their tickets to transfer them to the next day, but it worked out.

 

They arrived in Beacon Hills a whopping two hours before their wedding was scheduled, just in time to shower, change into the suits his father had rented, and make it to the altar. Stiles had wanted to get married with his friends and family in his old home town and Derek would give him anything so it hadn't even been much of a discussion. His father had helped Stiles plan it long distance and the date had been set the second Stiles and Derek's paperwork went through with the embassy. Derek had had few stipulations, mainly that there be pig to eat and that Derek be allowed to carry Stiles over the threshold of his father's house. He'd been very serious about this and Stiles' research had shown it had to do with Roman tradition. No one pissed off the goddess Vesta if they were smart about it. So the wedding took place in the back yard of Stiles' home and he dutifully avoided the ides of the month so there would be no bad omens.

 

Stiles walked down the isle because standing wasn't his forte, but Derek was the one in full Roman splendor in a long flowing white tunic with red trim and tassels and metal bling. He'd made it himself by hand using cloth from a store in Bermuda and he looked like a _god._ Stiles was in his police uniform, and was just sorry that his entire squad couldn't be here. They had video phoned in for him and Scott was holding the iPad as he cried while standing duty as best man.

 

Stiles barely heard the officiant marry him. His eyes were lost in Derek's as the man stared Stiles down as if he planned to eat him later. If things went well he would. Finally it was time to say their vows and Stiles took a deep breath, unfolded his letter, and carefully pronounced the words he'd been practicing in secret.

 

“Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia,” Stiles read.

 

The officiant blinked and glanced between them as if to say _that's it_? However, now Derek was the one fighting back tears as he spoke the English translation which he must have been practicing for this moment as well.

 

“Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.”

 

Scott blinked a few times, realized that it was his turn to do something, and quickly handed the tablet to Stiles' dad who had finished handing him off by walking him down the isle. His dad fumbled the tablet but it got situated eventually. Scott walked forward and took both their hands and joined them together. The officiant pronounced them married and Stiles dove in for his kiss while everyone in the garden applauded.

 

They had no groom's house to process to as they would in Roman tradition, so they had decided on having a procession around the house three times. Stiles was tugged along by his father who laughed as Derek wolfed out and pulled him from his father's arms as tradition dictated since Stiles was playing the role of 'bride'. It was a bit bittersweet that his mother hadn't been in that role, as that was supposed to be the bride pulled from her _mother's_ arms, but Stiles didn't let it dampen his mood. She was with him in spirit. The pack growled and chased the married couple around the house three times, laughing and making rude jokes, and at the third time Derek split off to enter the house first. When Stiles arrived at a flower covered doorway, led by his pack, Derek scooped him up and carefully stepped over the threshold to avoid touching it; but not before the pack then pelted them with walnuts, because _of course_ they'd read up on Roman traditions as well.

 

Finally they feasted and Stiles was showered with gift cards since traveling back with gifts would be a burden. Derek was both somber and at ease, chuckling as Stiles joked about starting out with a trophy husband. He refused to hear any jokes about Stiles being second at anything. If Stiles mentioned it or looked at the throuples around him he simply reminded him that Derek had waited longer than he had. When they retired to Stiles' old room that night he pulled him close and kissed him gently. Apparently it would be snuggling that night rather than the rough sex Stiles had hoped for, but in all honestly they were both exhausted.

 

“When we get back,” Derek told him, that accent still making Stiles' blood boil, “I will carry you over the threshold there as well.”

 

“As you wish,” Stiles yawned.

 

“And then you will mount me again.”

 

“Mm-hm,” Stiles yawned.

 

“Perhaps now that we have been pelted with walnuts I will conceive.”

 

“Whatever you wa- wait, what?”

 

 

 


End file.
